


A Third Kitchen Conversation

by Hawkbringer



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Abrupt Ending, Anatomical Accuracy, Angry Will Graham, BDSM discussed, Blood and Violence, Dark Will Graham, Gunplay, Knifeplay, M/M, No Beta, Poor Will Graham, Post-Episode: s02e07 Yakimono, Rough Kissing, Short, i posted it anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:46:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23720287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hawkbringer/pseuds/Hawkbringer
Summary: Post-Yakimono, another view of a 'kitchen conversation' Hannibal and Will might have. Will may hold a knife or a gun to his therapist's flesh, but it is Hannibal who is always totally in control. (written aug 2015, mind the tags)
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Kudos: 7





	A Third Kitchen Conversation

**Author's Note:**

> written 8th aug 2015, immediately after my first viewing of Yakimono. Original notes follow:
> 
> Okay, I want a fic. I want a fic where Will is even calmer. Even /more/ certain and even more in control, and it's their 3rd 'kitchen conversation'.
> 
> Will is talking to him as calm as anything but he suddenly picks up a knife and holds it Hannibal's throat, with him against a cabinet. OH OH OH. It should be in /Will's/ kitchen. Because the first was Abigail's, the second was Hannibal's, so, clearly, it'd be Will's. (in the future, they talk in Will's living room, at night, after Digestivo WHICH WAS A HELL OF A CLIMAX, DAMN. but it ain't a kitchen.)
> 
> Where are the dogs, then? No matter. Outside. Barking in the distance. Domesticity. Calm. 
> 
> Perhaps Will comes in with a load of groceries. It's set sometime around the time Alana Bloom visits him. Between her and Chilton's visits, perhaps. 
> 
> So Will is settling in. Alana has come and gone. 
> 
> (has he had the second kitchen conversation yet? I don't /remember/. hmmm. Welp, I'll see it later.)   
> (Oh no yes of course he has. That one is him escaped from BSHCI. Which happens... When? I don't rememeber.)   
> (First conversation is Savreoux. Third is this, shortly before Chilton's capture mid S2.)
> 
> Will walks in with a load of groceries and Hannibal is standing in his yard, staring down at his dogs. No, better yet, Hannibal is in his living room, sitting in his one chair, possibly at his kitchen table, yeah, probably there. The dogs are outside, chilling. (Er, it's cold out, so /really/ chilling. Well, running about, whatever.) 
> 
> Will stops, expression blank, for just a moment. Expression still blank, he continues into the room, eyes fixed on Hannibal's. (I've noticed he doesn't look for very long at anyone /but/ Hannibal. /Him/, he'll stare for long minutes at. Esp. that courtroom scene.) With a long sigh, he sets everything down on the table and starts to mechanically unpack it. Hannibal actually stands and attempts to help. Will doesn't stop him.
> 
> Once that busy-work is done, they, IDK. They stand there for a few minutes, hands hanging loosely, uselessly, at their sides. Will's eyes have slid off of Hannibal sometime during the unpacking. Before Hannibal can say his name, Will turns half away from him and begins putting the cheese and deli ham away. Will had asked to see the butcher's workspace, after all. Knowing the scent as he does, he's fairly certain this is not 'long pig.'

Will shuts the fridge door with hands that desperately want to shake. He is not ready for this conversation, this intervention. Not with Alana's words still so fresh in his mind. Not with the /images/ Alana's words conjured up still so fresh in his mind.

He's been silent for what is approaching too long for Hannibal's taste. He opens his mouth and only manages half of Will's name before the man in question grates out, "Did you /fuck/ Alana Bloom?"

Hannibal's mouth closes with a click. That was /not/ a question he had anticipated. He feels a faint tingle. Will with a backbone would be a new and interesting side to his former patient. Former friend. Former /prisoner./

Will misinterprets the very faint glimmer of interest in his eyes and roughly exhales, "You did." He glances at the linoleum floor for just a second before lifting his eyes again. "Why?" he grits out. His curls start bouncing as his head shakes, his entire upper torso subtly vibrating with agitation, rage, fear. Hannibal's lips part at the vision. It's his favorite look on Will.

"Did you do to it /punish/ me? /Wound/ me? Well, you succeeded, Hannibal. You succeeded in taking the one good thing in my life away from me! /Again/!" He surges forward and actually wraps his hands around Hannibal's throat and squeezes dangerously tightly. Hannibal's head makes a satisfying thunk as it connects with the cabinets behind it. 

Hannibal winces and blinks away the pain, like he was a normal person. Not /smoke/. Not the Devil himself. It makes the facts marching across the back of Will's eyebrows sting even more and his breath hisses past his teeth, lips peeled, teeth grit.

"Dear god, it's your fault Abigail's dead. It's your fault all those girls are dead. All those /people/, Hannibal! Why!!" Will's hands slip, separating from Hannibal's neck, shaking in the air above his shoulders, unwilling to drop back into Will's own orbit. Not that they'd have far to go, as Will's entire chest is pressed against Hannibal, aggressively, too close to be mistaken for intimacy.

Hannibal tilts his head as if disappointed in Will. "You know why, at this point, don't you, Will. If you know how and when, then you know why." 

Will exhales against Hannibal's cheek, not that he means to. "For your /amusement/," he chokes out, voice breaking involuntarily. The momentary anger fades away, drains out of his face along with the flush of blood, leaves him looking sweaty and pale and so, so attractive in Hannibal's eyes. He moves to drag a thumb along his cheek, as he has done so many times to Will while he was indisposed.

Will gathers his wits far more swiftly than Hannibal expected and before he can feel Will's sweaty flesh against his fingertips, he feels the bite of sharp steel on his neck. He wonders whose blade Will is holding, when he had the time to pick it up.

Repeating himself seems gauche in this situation, so Hannibal does not ask if Will is a killer. He does not ask if Will will be able to live with himself, without the answers. He asks if Will would like to hurt him. Injure him. Punish him.

"There are methods of injuring me that will not threaten my life.... I believe you have some knowledge of what was called sadomasochism, and now falls under the umbrella term BDSM."

Will resists the primary urge to answer his therapist. Friend. Cannibal. He presses the knife closer, channeling Garret Jacob Hobbs, the knife-point a substitute for an embrace. 

"Are you... offering to let me /whip you/?" He looks so incredulous, eyelashes fluttering behind his thick-rimmed glasses. He lifts the knife-edge away, aware of how much it would turn his stomach to stand vigil over a hospital bed containing /this/ asshole, especially considering how many times /he/ has done precisely that for /Will/.

"I am attempting to give you what you seem to need. You wish for me to face justice. You also want my answers."

"Oh, are you proposing a /trade/?" Will mocks, perfectly aware that Hannibal must be aware of the many 'trades' he pulled while he was incarcerated. The knife-edge reappears against the expanse of skin separating two ribs. A stabbing at that angle would puncture a lung but little else.

"No. I shall mete out the answers to you in my own time, Will. Nothing you do will change that." Will bares his teeth because he knows it to be true. "What I am offering you is a chance at closure. Inflict upon me enough pain to call my crimes paid for, and we can start again on even footing."

"I don't think it's /possible/ for a human being to survive the amount of pain I'd like to put you through." He slices the epidermis nearly painlessly for several inches and then lifts the knife away. "And we will /never/ be on even footing, don't try and kid yourself. I could never master your level of..." He seems to be struggling for the word. His shuddering drives the knife's point in a shallow snail-like trail down his abdomen. It stops near his hip when Hannibal speaks up.

"Art?" Because it /is/ art, what he does, and he does it with such /profusion/ that indeed, any other human would be hard-pressed to spend their life in such frenzied creation as he does.

"/Perversion/," Will retorts, hand tightening on the knife handle, jabbing warningly into the hollow of Hannibal's hip, at an angle that would puncture bowels. He's not sure when his left arm had come up around Hannibal's back, nor when Hannibal began caressing the hand that held his knife, as if waiting for the chance to plunge it into himself. "And doing some kind of /naughty schoolboy/ dungeon scene isn't going to even that footing anytime soon."

Hannibal's right eyebrow lifts fractionally. "I was thinking more along the lines of a delinquent sailor receiving lashings on the mast. I am surprised you would feel the need to regress to your schoolboy days, Will. Perhaps someday you would consent to tell me abou--"

"Nope. No way. Uh-uh. I am /not/ telling you about my 'school boy days' while I chain you up and whip you." He shakes his head most excessively, worrying the knife-point into the indentation in his flesh. It will most certainly bruise if nothing else.

"Hmm. Some other time then." Will swallows shallowly, certain Hannibal /would/ get it out of him at some other time. "Right now, you and I have a date with chains and a whip, you said?"

\---------  
(argh, Will's not Dark enough! Let me start again...)

Will slams him against a cabinet, gun literally pressing against his temple. His hand is not shaking at all. "Why should I have any sympathy for /you/?" Hannibal is dizzy, bleeding from the scalp. Were he anyone else, Will would probably be calling an ambulance right now. "You're always in control of /everything/. If you're seconds from death right now, then it's all /part of your design./" Will bares his teeth and faintly gnashes them inches from Hannibal's eyeball. Hannibal closes his eyes as blood is starting to run into them and irritate his corneas.

"I don't... control everything. I need your help, Will." He's panting pretty convincingly, Will has to admit to that.

"This is /a ploy/," Will informs him testily, pulling the hammer back on his gun. 

Hannibal actually /reacts/ to that, breathing more quickly, more shallowly. He is such a good actor, Will marvels. He forgives himself, a little bit, for being unable to see through the mask for so long. There are almost no holes. Almost.

"Will, if you do not help me, I am going to bleed out and die. If you wish for me to die, why not wait until you have made the best use of me you can?"

"Make the best /use/ of you?" Will sneers, shoving Hannibal's head sideways with the barrel, making the injured man grunt and wince. "The best use of /you/ is to make plumbing putty out of. Not even /that/," he menaces further, feeling with spidery, invasive fingers for holes in Hannibal's jacket just so he can dig his fingers into the bleeding spaces and make him /hurt more/. "I'd burn you. Burn you alive and burn you into ash. No burden to anyone anymore. Nothing but dust in the wind." 

Hannibal whines, but Will can't tell if it's because of what his fingers are doing or the image of himself creamated within the next few days. "Seems a shame to... Waste all this meat. What must /I/ taste like?" It's the first reference he's made to the fact that he /eats/ his victims, and Will barks a laugh.

"I have no intention of finding out." Will sounds almost awe-struck, watching the little flickers of pain crease his face. 

"Oh, I hope you /do/, one day," Hannibal tells him sincerely. 

"What, you want me to /eat/ with you?"

Will isn't conscious of the way the pressure of the barrel is lessening against Lecter's skull until he turns his head to face Will more fully. 

"And kill with me. Help me dispose of the bodies. Help me cook. I want to do /everything/ with you." 

"Everything?" Will repeats distantly, eyes jittering as he becomes aware that he has dropped his gun, literally, on the counter behind Hannibal, that his free hand is now digging into a wet spot on Hannibal's shoulder.

Hannibal inhales sharply at the pain, but it sounds so perfectly similar to the way he takes deep, meaningful sniffs of wines and brandies in Will's company that Will wonders what he really feels. What pain does to him. What pleasure might. He imagines torturing Hannibal Lecter, the man in chains at his feet, quivering beneath a single feather. He wonders if he could get him to scream.

Their eyes connect as Hannibal opens his, come down from the momentary high of that particular shooting pain. Their thoughts must connect too, for neither can say who made the first move to connect their lips. 

It's nothing like kissing Alana, thinks Hannibal. There are no pretenses to aspire to, no careful lines to be drawn. Will knows precisely what he is, and what he wants, and Hannibal has made certain that there is no one Will could convince of the truths that they share between them now. Thus, Will is free to stay alive, to stay sane, or /lucid/, as the case may be. Hannibal doesn't have to hurt him anymore. At least, not for a while. For a while, for now, the tables have turned. He opens his mouth and lets Will ravage his.

It's nothing like kissing Alana, thinks Will. There is no /affection/, there's no /sweetness/. It's all about power, and control. And Hannibal's giving it /all/ to Will. It's practically intoxicating, and Will wonders what drug he'll blame when he bites down on Hannibal's proffered lower lip hard enough to split it in the middle and leave bite marks on his inner lip that will fade against his teeth.

Hannibal offers his tongue next, and Will, overeager, bites it as well. A vital edge clipped off, Hannibal swallows it almost immediately, mourning the loss of perhaps making /Will/ swallow it. He is distracted by the hot flood of copper, congealing cold on his chin. His tongue throbs out blood into Will's mouth, sucked in and held there by a man determined to prove a point.


End file.
